A/N: My lovely beta stuckinpast send me back a bunch of chapters, so here we go. Thanks to everyone for the reviews and alerts, they are much appreciated!
Those of you who have read ´A Token of Honour´ will recognize Mr Hale, the nervous baker.
The scene with Richard and Maureen at the dance is loosely based on a scene from Mona Lisa Smile.
Hope you´ll enjoy!

Chapter 9
Reminiscing

Between finishing his monthly report to the Dowager Countess, treating a heart-attack and paying three house calls in the span of an hour – after having been up all night delivering a bay, Richard Clarkson decided his morning could certainly be described as hectic. It was almost noon already and only now he was finally able to pour himself a cup of coffee and sit down behind his desk, the half-written report still staring at him.

However his peace was of short duration when a knock on the door announced yet another person who needed his attention. ´Come in!´ he called out wearily.

´Good morning, Dr Clarkson.´ He would have recognized her voice from among a thousand others and instantly his tiredness was replaced with a nervous energy.

´Miss Thornton!´ he replied, jumping to his feet. A dozen thoughts crossed his mind in the span of a mere second. He gazed at her, checking for any sign of injury or illness that could be the reason for her coming to the hospital. He took in the sight of her, her face flushed from the walk, the heavy mailbag on her side and the smile that still haunted his dreams. He endeavoured to maintain a professional composure, he tried to get his breathing and voice under control and think of something intelligent to say. It all accumulated in a few short, briskly spoken words:

´What brings you here?´

´I have a parcel for you and a letter for Dr Wellington,´ Maureen replied, holding out both items to him.

He took them thoughtlessly, frowning slightly as he asked: ´You´re still doing the rounds then?´

Maureen sighed a bit in reply. ´Well, as it turned out my assistant suffered from a little more than a simple stomach flu… He went home to his parents in Rippon to get better, but last week I got a letter from his father, telling me that his appendix has been removed. He´ll be recovering for another three weeks at least.´

´Leaving you to manage the postal office on your own?´ he asked incredulously.

She shrugged lightly in reply. ´Well, it isn´t as if he did it on purpose. And this time of year isn´t too busy, so I´ll manage.´

He looked wholly unconvinced at her words, but decided to let the matter drop.

´I do need you to sign for the parcel though,´ she reminded him gently. Just as he was about to reach into his pocket for a pen, the door of his office flew open and a heavy, panic-stricken man burst in, his face ashen-white and wet with perspiration, clutching a cloth around his hand. ´Doctor… you have to help me!´ he grunted out.

´Mr Hale,´ Richard greeted the baker calmly. ´What is the matter with you?´

´I´ve cut myself…´ the large man wailed, quivering with fright. ´I´m bleeding to death!´

´Please Mr Hale, sit down!´ Maureen quickly pulled a chair in front of the man and urged him to sit down, concern evident in her face.

´Let me have a look, Mr Hale,´ Richard said calmly, trying to pry to cloth away from the man´s hand.

´It all happened in a flash!´ the baker panted, obviously still highly distressed. ´Like I told the Mrs… just a flash, one moment I was carving bread, the next moment there was blood everywhere. Absolutely everywhere! The Mrs was reaching for her smelling salts and I thought I knew for certain that I had lost my hand… the pain! And there was so much blood, I didn´t even know a person could have that much blood inside him and neither did the Mrs… I managed to bandage it up a bit, could have used an entire sheet… will I be able to keep use of my hand? I need to, I´m a baker you see… the Mrs can´t do it all by herself….´

Maureen blinked in surprise as the man rambled and raved unwaveringly. For all the drama he portrayed, he couldn´t be injured too severely. As Richard barred his hand, she noticed the cut was nothing more than a superficial scratch that had left a small stain on the cloth.

´I assure you Mr Hale, you will make a full recovery,´ Richard told the man in a perfectly even voice. But for a mere instant he caught her eyes and she noticed the twinkle in his eyes .

´It´s all such a dreadful business…´ Mr Hale continued to moan. ´And the poor Mrs… she´ll be sick with worry… absolutely sick with worry… and it´s almost noon and she´ll have the stew ready and I won´t be there to eat it… she´s always had a bit of a nervous character…´

´If you´d like I'll stop by at the bakery on my round,´ Maureen offered kindly. ´I´ll tell Mrs Hale you´re being looked after by Dr Clarkson and that you´ll be home as soon as you´re finished here.´

´Oh would you?´ The relief on the face of the distressed man was obvious.

´I´ll fetch one of the nurses to disinfect the wound and dress it,´ Clarkson said, walking Maureen to the door. ´That´s very nice of you,´ he told her softly, as soon as he was certain they were out of ear-shot.´

´It´s no trouble,´ she reassured him. She cast back a glance and Mr Hale. ´Will he be alright?´

´His hand will be,´ Richard replied soberly.

Maureen caught on to his tone and laughed before another thought crossed her mind. ´You still need to sign for the parcel. But there´s no hurry, you can always come by at the postal office and do it later on.´

´I will,´ he agreed, much to her surprise. ´I might stop by once my shift is over. In the meantime, don´t you overdo things. If you want to, I can ask around for someone to help you out, while your assistant is recovering.´

´That´s kind of you,´ she answered, genuinely touched by his concern. ´ But I´ll manage. ´I know how to run a postal office, it´s what I do best.´

´I know you do,´ he replied, a hint of bitterness appearing in his voice. ´I know.´

Maureen Thornton had been completely truthful when she had told Richard that she enjoyed doing the rounds. It had been the one drawback from being promoted to postal mistress all those years ago. As an assistant she had thoroughly enjoyed her walks through the village and even now she still often felt coped up in the tiny postal office.

Her thoughts drifted back to her short encounter with Richard in the hospital earlier that morning. She smiled softly at the memory. It had been such a long time ago since the two of them had just talked and been able to share a laugh without a strain between them. Her smile turned wry and she heaved a deep sigh as she felt the memories flooding back. And with them the familiar, stinging feeling of deep regret.

The night she met Richard stood as vividly in her mind as if it had only happened yesterday. She had been an assistant to Downton´s previous postal mistress, the formidable Mrs Dale, for over a year when one evening in October she had attended Downton´s annual ´Harvest Dance.´ She clearly remembered how she had dreaded the event. Large gatherings of people didn´t sit well with her, especially when she was in the company of the boisterous Agatha, Mrs Dale´s niece and her friend at the time.

They had gone to the dance at the village hall in a pack of four girls. She had resigned herself at being left at the table, watching other couples dance and pretending to like observing people. It was always the same. Agatha, loud and unmistakable present would gain the attention of the room, securing a request to dance from whoever held her fancy at the moment. Her two friends Emma and Lucy would follow in her wake, each of them pretty and outspoken girls as well and she would be left to fend for herself. Mousy Maureen… the nickname had tailed her since her schooldays and although she rationally knew her friends never meant to say it in a mean spirit, it stung nevertheless.

She had noticed him the moment he walked in. He had already been a doctor at the hospital for a few years. His hair had still been a reddish brown and the moustache had been a fairly new development. Sitting at her table, observing him from behind her glass of cider she´d thought that it suited him well. She watched as he talked and joked with her friends. She watched and noticed she wasn´t the only woman looking at him.

When he had come over to her table and asked her to dance with him she had been flabbergasted, until she realised he was probably just being polite. ´He´s just being courteous,´ she had told herself as he had led her to the dance floor. Still, it was nice of him to ask her and it had certainly been a memorable experience. The feel of his hand on her back, the way he led her effortlessly through the dance, his easy banter and the way he hummed along to bits and pieces of the music.

She fully expected the brush-off when the song ended. But instead, as the orchestra picked up a softer, much slower tune, he had pulled her closer. Resting her head tentatively against his shoulder, her heart in overdrive, she had ceased to wonder about the why, but just enjoyed it wholeheartedly.

He had stayed close at her side for the remainder of the evening. They had danced, talked, laughed… she had been amazed to discover that she possessed the ability to make him laugh as well. The dreaded event turned into one of the most wonderful evenings of her life and when she had laid in her bed that night, unable to sleep, she had relived it again and again.

After that evening she often happened to come across him as she was making her rounds around the village, delivering the mail. Their meetings brightened her day and she very much enjoyed his company, but it never occurred to her that he met her by design, that he had taken a fancy to her, until one afternoon he had just kissed her, in the middle of a country road.

From there on their courtship had begun. There was quite an age-difference between them, but they seemed to be the only ones not bothered by it. She had never been so ridiculously happy as in those months. He made her so very happy. It still amazed her that he had picked her out of all the women he could have chosen, but he was adamant in his declarations and displays of his love for her.

He had proposed to her on Christmas Eve, after she had wondered all day why he was so nervous and tense. When the evening came he had presented her with his gift. Inside the beautiful wrapping paper she had found – to her great surprise – a small, velvety box. After opening it, her eyes had filled with tears as she saw the elegant ring. When she´d looked up he was already on one knee, reaching out for her hands, his voice unusually hoarse and strained as he asked her to become his wife.

During their engagement her worries began. It wasn´t in any way his fault. His devotion was unwavering and he never gave her the slightest reason to doubt his fidelity to her. The demons resided inside her own head, poisoning her thoughts until she couldn´t see clearly anymore.

She had never understood his love for her. She had accepted it, returned it, cherished it, but she never agreed with it. Why her? Why Mousy Maureen when he could have any woman? She knew he was open and outgoing. She knew he turned quite a few heads. She knew being flirtatious was in his nature. So why did he insist on marrying a shy, dull girl who had never been called anything more than ´nice-looking´?

She wasn´t the only one who wondered about it. Occasionally she caught whispers of conversation. How had she managed to snatch up the most eligible bachelor of the village? Agatha Dale went even as far as too outright ask her this. And as she didn´t know the answer herself, the other woman coldly remarked it might just be a fleeting fancy. Emma and Lucy were equally incredulous and between their comments and her own thoughts her doubts increased.

At first being with him diminished any apprehension she felt. The moment he took her in his arms, kissed her and whispered how much he loved her, her confidence soared and she could believe everything would be alright. But once alone again, her doubts and worries returned with full vengeance.

Wasn´t she tying him down to a life he was surely going to regret? Because one day he was going to wake up and regret that he had chosen her and he would want to be free of her. It could take a week or a year, but he would become bored with her, grow tired of her and in the end come to resent her. As happy as he made her, as unhappy she would make him. And that was the thought that was the most unbearable. She would make him unhappy. She loved him more than anyone in the world, but she would be the cause of his unhappiness.

And after weeks of doubting and deliberating the final straw came when Agatha asked her in an off-handed manner if she worried about pleasing her husband once they were married. Her insides had turned cold at the comment and she had blushed and stammered, unable to form a coherent reply. Agatha´s condescending, reassuring: ´… but I´m sure you´ll be alright´ had had the complete opposite effect.

That same evening she had gone to see him at the hospital and gave him back his ring and his freedom. She´d held herself deaf to his pleas, truly believing that she was doing the right thing and that he would one day be thankful.

The first week after their break-up had been the hardest, most miserable time of her life. She had cried until she had no tears left. Instead of the relief she had expected to feel, she just felt empty and mean. And then, after that week he had suddenly left the village. She had heard it at the postal office on Monday morning, when he was already gone. The ache that filled her at the thought that she would never see him again had shattered what was left of her heart.

In the months that followed she slowly, very slowly managed to find her footing again. Mrs Dale resigned unexpectedly and she was offered the post of postal mistress which she gratefully took, eager to have something to do. And work she did. She transformed the postal office to an efficient, professional service, thriving personally from having found something she excelled at.

After a year he had returned to Downton. She heard the news in the same matter she had heard of his departure – on a Monday morning in the postal office. They week had dragged by endlessly until it was Sunday and she knew she would meet him in church.

When she saw him her heart had given the familiar flutter and she had known without a shadow of a doubt that she loved this man and would never love another. She had looked at him until he had finally looked back. But when their eyes had met, over the pews separating them, she had found that his gaze was devoid of the love and admiration that had been there before a year ago. He looked at her in a cold, indifferent manner, giving her only the barest of nods to acknowledge her presence. And she had understood. After all, what else could she have had expected?

He took up his job at the hospital and as the years went by he became a very prominent member of the community. She knew he had the reputation of being a bit of a flirt and she had dreaded the moment until he would form an attachment again. But he never did. He did, however, continue to avoid her at all costs. He never came to the postal office and since she had an assistant of her own to walk the rounds now and could boast on having an excellent health, there never was any reason for her to visit the hospital. She´d given up going to the Harvest Dance years ago and at every other social function she managed to arrive at the moment he was leaving or vice versa. She only met him in church weekly, the small nod they exchanged the only form of communication left between them.

Still, the years had changed her. Feeling confident at her job, knowing that she was a valued and trusted member of the community herself had done wonders for her self-esteem. She´d grown older and a bit wiser. She would never be spontaneous, or outgoing but she grew content with just being her quiet, thoughtful self. She discovered that a friendship which consisted of condescending slights, manipulation and regular put-downs wasn´t worth the name of it and ended all contact with Agatha Dale. Mousy Maureen had disappeared, to never return again.

But with these new insights also came a new, bitter regret about the way she had treated Richard. With a bit more experience and sense she finally understood just how much he had loved her, how much he had wanted to be with her. And how deeply she had hurt him when she had thrown that love back in his face. Sometimes she felt she would gladly give anything if she could turn back the time and undo what she had done. The irony of it wasn´t lost on her either. She had, of her own accord managed to do in a spectacular fashion what she had been afraid to do all along: to cause his unhappiness. She had lost him and it had been her own doing. To use a quote from her favourite novel: she had used him ill. And no measure of regret could undo it.

Dear Harold,

I am glad you did not take offense to my rather blunt observations. Rest assured that I did mean what I said. I do not think anyone in their right mind would hold it against you that you have spent a few years of your life in a music hall. So no more shame and guilt please!

In reply to your question: yes I had my chance once to marry and have a family of my own. It is funny you should ask that, I have found myself thinking about him frequently over the last few weeks. It´s not a very grand tale, I am afraid. We grew up together in the same village. His parents had a farm as mine did and he would follow in his father´s footsteps and take over the farm. We had been walking out together for a few months when he proposed to me. It took me two days to make up my mind, but in the end I refused him. Very much to my mother´s aggravation, I am sad to report. I have often been told that I have a temper that matches her, but based on that single event, I know for certain that it is not so. And I could not explain it to her, because I didn´t even understand myself why I did not wanted to marry him.

He was a nice man. He was kind and a hard worker. He had good prospects. My life would have been secured had I accepted him, but I never could bring myself to do it. I liked him, I respected him, but I did not love him. And I believe that feeling was mutual. So a marriage, even as prudent as it seemed, would have ended in a disaster. A very quiet, well-mannered disaster – no one would have noticed a thing perhaps- but a disaster nevertheless. I could not be happy with a man who only saw what I could do, rather than to see who I am. Does that make me very fastidious?

He was a good friend and I liked him. But trying to turn our relationship into something that it wasn´t, would have destroyed it.

But now I wonder about you: once you decided to go into service, did you give up on the idea of having a family of your own?

Yours affectionately,
Elisabeth

Dear Elisabeth,

You could not be fastidious even if you tried. I believe it takes a great strength of character to stay true to your values, as opposed to choose for the security a marriage can offer. It is rather disheartening to realize a man can be so oblivious to the worth of the woman he is proposing to, but I would say that it is his loss.

Something you wrote has been mulling in my thoughts ever since I received your letter. How trying to change a relationship into something it is not can only destroy it. I tend to agree with you on this matter. Good relationships are so very important. Whether it is between a husband and a wife, a parent and a child, an employer and an employee or co-workers, it is what shapes us in the person we are. I have been tempted to change some of these relationships, to turn them into something different, but I never went through with it for the fear of destroying it.

I suppose in a way this answers your question; I did not fully give up the idea of having a family of my own, but since I went into service I have not find myself in a relationship that had the potential of progressing to a romance.

I have come to enjoy reading your letters and writing to you very much, Elisabeth. For some reason I do not quite grasp myself I find it easy to talk to you. Even in these short weeks of our acquaintance I have come to value your friendship highly. I do not know where it will lead us, but please be assured that I will always treat it with great care.

Your friend,
Harold

Would you like to guess what Maureen´s favourite novel is?